Not An Elocution
by usagimodokipsuedo
Summary: Prompt: Near writes about Mello and his gay feelings for him but he's too stubborn to do anything about it so he sits in agonizing silence and his only escape is writing everything down. AU where Mello and Near are in a regular school and they actually get along and are gay friends.


Do you ever see someone doing something and it doesn't really matter what, but you kind of just examine their movements almost. Details for your memory.

The way their fingers might twitch or a way they blink during a certain moment

When they do something they're really interested in and you can see that they are because they might look focused or excited and trying to contain it

And sometimes you try to wonder what your life would be like if you never met them when you did. You wouldn't have any of these things to catch onto.

Or maybe, if you would feel this exact same way if you had somebody else instead.

Would you still be so interested in how they maneuver? Would you still question the things you question now? Would you still admire the same things? The mannerisms. The responses. The eyes. The smiles. The laughs. The way they play. Would you have found someone else to unfortunately fall for with such a high level of.. Interest, curiosity, all of things that were never peaked until they came around. Would you still worry about life like you do? What if it were somebody else?

What would you really do?

It's a month after I first noticed him, first wondered who he was was and why he intrigued me so much for someone who was just a stranger. He intimidated me tremendously, but I didn't back down and I swore to myself that this would be the day that I wouldn't let my anxiety get the best of me, not this time.

Something about him, will not allow me to walk from this without at least trying and it's 9:18 in the morning now. Ready for the third class for the day in my first year of 8th grade, (which I've skipped a year to come to) and I've spent the last few days calculating which moment would be the best to approach him and now that it's decided, I write the note.

I don't want it to say too much or too little so I say just enough on the slip of paper and include my phone number. The last minute before the ringing of the school bell over the intercom is pure agony. My hands are trembling, shaking, but I am not backing down now. It's too late for that. And when it rings, I'm one of the first out the classroom and down the hall of the 400 building.

There are numbers of unfamiliar faces and I scan each one briefly for his, and I spot it. My stomach drops and I feel sicker than ever and a mop of blonde is walking in my direction, expression intimidatingly cold. I stop him and with visibly trembling hands, I thrust the folded slip of paper into his hands roughly and walk as fast as I can without running, to my next class.

My fingers tug and knot in the sleeves of my shirt a bit roughly, I'm full of nervous energy and as I reach my classroom and sit down in my seat, I question my actions just moments before and almost begin to regret it until the screen of my device lights up with an unfamiliar number and when I read it, my knee jumps up and collides with the under side of my desk. I can't believe it worked.

He makes me laugh and it makes me cry and it makes me nervous and scared.

He might have a certain.. Smell? Scent? and something about it is extremely... Comforting in a way. It warms me up. It calms me down. I think about him when I'm trying not to think about him. I dream and Mello is there. For years, every. Single. Night without fail. Mello is there. And sometimes I wake up in tears due to nightmares and others, with sleepy smiles and early butterflies. I could do anything with him and feel alright. He's human, just like me, he has his bad parts and his good parts and I can accept all of them without hesitation or questioning. I don't know what I want though.

I know, I'm so fully aware that I could possibly be in love with Mello, but if don't know what I want with him. I am content with how things are in the present and truly, could not be happier but I still question with a great amount of curiosity; 'what is it that I want with this person?' a relationship doesn't feel correct. It doesn't feel powerful enough. So it must be something other worldly, and he inspires me. I haven't met anybody who has inspired me, motivated me, pushed me to want to achieve and succeed more than he has.

I admire everything there is to admire. His cerulean eyes are one of my favorites. I wish oh so badly that I were an artist who could paint the most realistic portraits around and I would paint Mello. From every angle. The most exquisite detail into every brush stroke.

There is a strange, strong.. Longing, a pulling. For what? I don't know. But I think that's part of why I feel the way I do. Some days, I find myself wandering down the halls at night, when my mind is restless, yearning to tell him about all of the feelings that I harbor for him, which hit me extremely hard and I can't handle nor control them.

When I write, Mello is on my mind, he's the source for the words I type, the dreams I have, the wishes I make. He has me so tightly in his grasp and sometimes I can't breathe but it's okay.

Halloween is my favorite holiday, Mello is my favorite person. Together, I could not have a more perfect combination. It's quite crisp when I step outside and I'm glad for that, humidity not being my preferred weather choice. The first few houses are simple, the usual, yearly, greetings followed by handfuls of candy I know I won't eat because they hurt my teeth. One house in particular, a stranger smiles at the two of us, handful of candy given while she says 'here's one for you and your girlfriend' and I blush embarrassingly with having to correct this stranger, (stating that we are both in fact, of the male gender) and her most wonderful assumptions of us being in a relationship.

I remember that night, the one before the new year. There were twenty five minutes remaining and it really was time to part ways for the night but I had something I wanted to do. Something I planned as a spur of the moment and was now, attempting to go through with. It was a simple idea, simple actions but I wouldn't let it be so simple would I? No, I'm too nervous. Always too nervous. Because when I finally get the tip of his nose against mine, I freeze and my heart is panicking, it's beating so hard and it starts to hurt me and it seems the oxygen has decreased and the tips of my ears have ignited and I want to push myself the last inch and just do it. Just do it.

But I can't and I can't breathe and Mello looks at me and I jump back and grab my things, hands shaking, missing the door handle by a few attempts and finally scramble out and make my way outside, yelling out a, 'I'm sorry, I have to go'. I begin to walk home, my face is meek, even when I spot my transformers in a neat pile on my desk. I grab one, I noticed that my hands shake. They are shaking so bad one would think I could be having a panic attack when in reality, I was just going to kiss him for the first real time.

I've seem to have adopted this fear. The fear of the natural order of living. The workings of life and death. They have begun to haunt me to the point that when I stay at the older boy's house a little too late, I refuse to let him walk me home at thirty minutes to nine because it is dark out. And it's not them I'm truly worried about. It's the other drivers because they can be even more reckless. And I get home in the early evenings, I strictly make it my mission to tell him to stay safe. It's said nervously, as always, but I push as much of my love into it as possible without overdoing it.

Because I really do need Mello to be safe and the bare thought of losing him stops my heart so abruptly that I _never_ want to experience that. And I worry about him, more than normal I think. I worry and I miss him and I want him to be safe with every fiber of my being so if I can't say 'i love you' the closest things are 'be safe'.

There are days where he's exceptionally short with me and it's getting gradually irritating because talking to him is usually the highlights of my day, but I understand that he might be having a bad day or perhaps, just not in a talkative mood and really, that's alright and if I feel as if he's upset, I do my best to cheer him up with a bit of his favorite dark chocolate by Ghirardelli, and even though he accepts it without a response of his own, it doesn't matter because I want to make sure he knows that he's much more than what he might make himself out to be.

His laugh never truly fails to make me laugh to myself and smile in retaliation. It makes me fall a little more every time and there are slight moments when the tip of his tongue squeezes past his front teeth and pokes out with a quick grin. The way he denies his slight exhaustion as he lays under either mine or his bed comforters, my fingers find his hair and twirl themselves in it because I know it makes him tired and his hair is always extraordinarily soft. And even though these feelings of mine are not reciprocated, this, for me alone, is what it means to be in love. As painful as it can be, it does have it's rewards from time to time.

Four days and three nights are what I spent with him this week. I grew so used to his presence, waking up before him and laying there to simply, be at peace beside him for a short while. I wear his shirt around the house, the black sweater that's soft as cotton and swallows my hands. And while he sleeps in the bedroom, I sit at the kitchen table with a hot mug between my palms as I think and endlessly daydream. The days when I return home are odd. They are so empty, as if they are missing something and truly, they are. It's quiet without his laughs, without his voice, it's cold without his warmth and I have to grow used to sleeping alone once again.

Some nights, without real reason, I sense the need to cry when I step foot into my own home and I find myself sobbing pathetically, uncontrollably, into my pillowcase and I'm beginning to realize, that this building of which I reside, this 'home' in which I spend most of my days, has begun to feel not so much like home anymore. The feeling of contentness, security, the feeling of being completely at ease is no longer in the definition of this home because it has moved and relocated itself into him. He has become my home, and without him, I are unbearably homesick.

When we go out together, I wonder how people perceive the both of us. I try to match pace with him on the sidewalk, keeping up, trying to stop falling back. I wonder if I'm walking too weird, if I look nervous and anxious and I stop biting at the skin of my index finger, and my hand drops by my side and when it falls and brushes his, I jump back immediately, my heart doing an embarrassing dance as I apologize and focus on not making such a wonderful mistake again.

Something as simple as sitting across the table from him has me dazed. His eyes hypnotize me. They grab me and pull me in until I am ultimately lost in them. When he talks, I watch his mouth and his eyes, only focusing on both to keep myself steady from his gaze and occasionally, in his words and slight ramblings, his eyes will meet mine and I'll agree with what he might be saying and smile along with him.

Sometimes, during moments when it's silent without reason or solution, I'll catch him looking at me and for the briefest moment, I'll catch his eyes with mine before he averts his gaze and I wonder why he was looking in the first place and in response, I'll look at him for a moment until I think he'll catch me and when I look away, my gaze shoots back again and when he catches mine this time, the spotlight is all on me.

It's a game of cat and mouse, really. I sometimes sense that Mello realizes the effects that his actions have on me, and yet, he doesn't seem to quit. He's irritating. As we grow older, I experience different effects that Mello has on me, like when he leans against me during a movie and his hair tickles my cheek, and his hot breath licks against my neck. It makes my skin erupt in very visible goosebumps, and my cheeks to flush crimson.

I wonder if he can hear my rapid heartbeat, my shallow breathing. I wonder if he can _smell_ the desperation oozing from my pores. It seems he hasn't, either that or he just doesn't care. I have done research on what I'm feeling, and the back of my mind conjured up a theory: I need Mello in more ways than one.

 _And I seemed to have found out, that, Mello needs me in more ways than one as well._


End file.
